


Mark His Grave

by J_E_McCormick



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Gen, Montparnasse and Feuilly with a brotherly relationship yeeeaahhhh, im sort of sorry for this but also not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_E_McCormick/pseuds/J_E_McCormick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Montparnasse gets to the fallen barricade at the Barriere du Maine, most of the bodies have been cleared away or moved. He goes through the ones that remain, feeling nothing at the sight of the young men, not much older than him, dead, with bullet wounds and bayonet gashes. </p><p>There is, however, a body that makes him stop, staring as he feels something in his chest drop sickeningly.</p><p>“Feuilly…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark His Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Barricade Day 2014 whoop whoop here you go

Montparnasse has been scavenging from the barricades for hours, picking around the bodies of the fallen to take what he can find. He’s found all sorts of little trinkets – pocket watches and rings, which he takes to sell, and purses and coins, which he pockets for himself. He collects a couple of guns and their munitions as well – while he may not use the weapons, he heard they were going for high prices before this little rebellion, and decides having some to sell on cannot be a bad thing.

By the time he gets to the fallen barricade at the Barriere du Maine, most of the bodies have been cleared away or moved. He goes through the ones that remain, feeling nothing at the sight of the young men, not much older than him, dead, with bullet wounds and bayonet gashes. He steals a purse of money from one; some spectacles from another; a few have nothing on them. He recognises Eponine amongst them, and feels briefly sorry for her. He’d liked her well enough, and it really is a pity that she has died, but if she was stupid enough to be at the barricade it is no-one’s fault but hers.

There is, however, a body that makes him stop, staring as he feels something in his chest drop sickeningly.

“Feuilly…” He murmurs, falling slowly to his knees beside the body, cold and pale and broken.

He’d known the man as a brother during their childhood – taken the smaller, weaker boy under his wing, bringing him under the shadow of the Patron Minette, helped him steal food and coins, helped him find shelter, kept him safe. It was as they grew older, and Montparnasse’s activities became more and more unsavoury, that they started to drift apart, Feuilly breaking free to start honest work. Montparnasse saw him, on occasion, in the streets or the cafes. He knows where Feuilly lives – lived.

They’ve barely talked in the past few years – occasionally Montparnasse will throw him a greeting, and Feuilly will return it, and there conversation stops, neither knowing how to talk to the other anymore. It’s saddening – Feuilly is – was – one of the few people Montparnasse has been truly close to in his life. He had looked after him in childhood, and still now kept an eye on him at times.

He’s a little surprised at the ache that comes with the thought that he’ll no longer see Feuilly in the street, or watch him as he talks to friends in cafes, or loiter in his street to see him come home safe.

The thought strikes him that Feuilly has no family and little money – no-one to arrange him a funeral, pay for a grave or headstone. He imagines him, buried somewhere in an unmarked, unnamed grave. The ache in his chest increases.

He stands – not paying attention to the blood and dirt that has soaked into the fabric of his trousers – and goes through the pockets of the other men. Some of them have paper in their pockets, stating their names and where to take their bodies – Jean Prouvaire, 15 Rue Saint-Rémi, Nimes; Étienne Combeferre, 24 Rue Montaigne, Marseille; Michel Bahorel, 5 Av. Des Cevenoles, Alés – and he finds some extra paper in one pocket, a pencil in the other. He takes them, and walks back over to Feuilly, considering him.

He takes out the purses he’s been pickpocketing throughout the day – some are from richer students and guards, and have notes and sums enough to buy Montparnasse a fashionable new coat, keep him comfortable for months, buy him more food than he’d know what to do with – and puts together enough to pay for a simple headstone. He tucks it into Feuilly’s breast pocket, and then carefully writes a note on the paper. His writing is not the most fluent, his handwriting neat enough but a little shaky. It’s legible, at least, and that is what matters. He slips it alongside the money.

_This man’s name is Daniel Feuilly. Please use this money for a headstone to mark his grave._

Montparnasse kneels for a few minutes more, his eyes taking in Feuilly’s features, mourning quietly by his side. He dips his hands into Feuilly’s pockets, and takes out his pocketwatch – it is decent quality, and working still. He could fetch a price for it. But rather than putting it in with the rest of the trinkets to sell on, Montparnasse slips it into his own pocket. He’ll keep it for himself.

He stands after a moment, sighing softly as he gives one last lingering look to Feuilly’s body, and then he turns and slips away from the fallen barricade.


End file.
